Chapter Text
In the end, neither side had really won nor lost.
The undead army had managed to drastically reduce the living bodies of the army that fought alongside the Heroes Three and cast them to his domain, but the remaining troops had been strong enough to face his own and stall them.
But he had won the real prize.
The one wielding a Spear had hidden his heart in a jar of living soil, the one thing his sixth sense could not penetrate (Now where oh where could he have gotten something like that?), a clever trick, had it not been for the resurrected queen.
Glass had stolen it from the foolish Spear, hiding it in a bag and leaving the jar to trick him, and marched across the battlefield, swiping aside soldier after soldier until she stood before him uncowed by his monstrous form.
“So you prefer to fight the head from the start rather than waste time with cannon fodder...” he had said to her with a smirk in his voice, “I suppose I can accommodate you-”
“I did not come to fight you.”
“Bold of you to cut off the God of Death, or say that you will not fight while standing in a battlefield”
“Make no mistake, I will fight to regain my kingdom.” She unhooked the bag from her belt and held it out to him. “But here, I wish to amend a mistake.”
L'arc had sensed it the moment it had left the living soil and had felt it steadily approaching him across the battlefield, and yet still was surprised to find it before him so easily, the fabric of the bag rhythmically shifting tellingly.
The red lights in his sockets bored into her.
“What makes you believe I want it?”
She had closed her eyes at this, taking a deep breath before opening them once again.
“Because the truth is; it belonged to him, didn't it?”
The lights flared.
“He loved you dearly, and you love him in turn.” She lowered her head in shame, “But because of my foolishness, Naofumi was killed for his association with not just the enemy goddess, but with you as well.”
Naofumi... The name Melanthe had taken for himself while masquerading as a human.
Killed.
A part of him, a little human part of him that had stubbornly remained throughout his godhood, wailed in despair at the thought.
He tilted his head skyward at the snow clouds above.
The snow had blanketed everything beneath, undead and living alike indiscriminately, choosing no side to favour, the smell of cold heavy in the air.
Typical Melanthe.
When demanded to remain neutral, he chooses a side to fight for and when expected to fight beside him, he decides to inconvenience both sides equally.
“He is gone, but your heart is still here. You should decide what to do with it now that it belongs to you again.” Foolish girl. It would always belong to Melanthe.
He reached out a clawed hand and took the pulsing bag regardless. In that moment, little flits of emotion had clicked like static in his mind; fury for the betrayal, despair for the empty place in his heart and reverence for the one who brought it all upon him.
But most of all, L'arc felt the exhaustion.
Sadness and pain can indeed be a powerful driving force but, like all things, with nothing to balance them they drained his very being, leaving nothing but for the desire for it all to just end and the insufferable ache that cried I just want him back. The glowing dots in his eye sockets dimmed.
A hefty sigh was heaved and the God of Death turned and trudged away.
He didn't say a word more to Glass.
He left, all will to fight was gone. He had what he needed. The undead army crumbled to ash, leaving the army of the Three Heroes blinking in confusion.
And above, the clouds dissipated, allowing the Sun to shine through and warm the land below.
-
Far away, beneath a weeping willow, the God of Death sat alone, the branches only barely shielding him from the drizzle of rain.
Next to him, a little brown bag that pulsed a slow rhythm and in one clawed hand, a chunky silver locket chimed a melancholy tune, it's sister hanging from his matted furry neck and resting on his chest. A little while ago, a bat had fluttered overhead and the all-too familiar locket had suddenly dropped into his lap.
For a moment, just a fleeting moment, L'arc considered swinging it by it's chain and throwing it with all his might into the ocean. Instead, he cradled it gently in his hands, running a finger over the familiar inscription.
Melanthe had crafted these necklaces as an engagement gift and had even studied L’arc’s mother tongue to inscribe the loving message:
Evermore, I Am Yours
A common vow to make at weddings back in his Kingdom, but nonetheless a vow of eternal loyalty and adoration.
How long had it been since he last went home? Was it even standing anymore, after all these centuries?
“Maybe I should visit the old place. . .” He chuckles to himself. After all, he has so much time on his hands now. A lonely, lonely eternity to himself.
How on earth had Melanthe managed to survive so long with only a fraction of his power without going mad?
He snorted. A foolish question.
It was Melanthe, the god that regularly disguised himself as a human lived among them and learned from them when the gods became too insufferable to bear.
He had heard that Melanthe, under the name of Naofumi, had become something of a local deity in the swamp he had hidden himself in, winning the reverence and respect of the people who lived there, all without his godly powers. He never let anything slow him down or get in his way, not even the loss of power. Any obstacle or restriction placed upon him, he shrugged off like a snake sloughing it’s skin and carried onward with all the natural talents he had being more than enough to support him in this strange new world.
And here L’arc was, formerly a mortal himself not too long ago and struggling to be alone.
Melanthe, or rather Naofumi, had told him without saying as such, how foolish he had been for cutting his heart out, how horribly it had changed him and how selfish he was.
L’arc had found several advantages of removing his heart.
He could run his kingdom without the thoughts of his estranged husband and the pain his absence brought dragging him down, he could make the tough decisions without his human empathy clouding his judgement, but most importantly, he could reflect on the past without previous feelings flaring back to life and colouring his perspective.
And what he discovered upon reflection?
Melanthe had been right.
L’arc had adored Melanthe for how rebellious and free thinking he was compared to the other gods and the rigid system they followed. The way he blazed his own trail had reminded L’arc of his days as a mortal and how he had desired to do much of the same as a King.
Yes, that desire lived by Melanthe had been one of the first of many reasons he had fallen for the God of Spring.
But at some point L’arc began to believe that after he had managed to capture his affection, he had tamed Melanthe, even more so when they were wed. L’arc believed, because he was Melanthe’s husband and the God of Death, that he would follow him wherever he desired and would do as he said.
He was foolish to ever think so.
Melanthe had always done as he pleased, if he wanted to leave the Underworld outside of his season then he did, if he wanted time to himself he did and if he wanted to learn something new he would.
Melanthe had stayed with L'arc because he loved him as much as he loved Melanthe.
He had seen them as equals, yes perhaps he could sway Melanthe’s decisions but never did he have control over him.
To have control would mean Melanthe had lost what had made him so unique and beautiful.
When had L'arc forgotten that?
The chiming melody reached it’s final note and fell silent. He sighed and clicked it shut, observing his ugly reflection in the silver surface. The face had been dented deeply, it had likely fallen to the ground when Melanthe’s physical form had dissipated.
When he had been killed.
. . .
It was funny.
Years upon years of Godhood and learning how the gods worked and the thought of Melanthe dying at the hand of mortals had elicited such a powerful rush of despair. It seems that some part of his mortal sensibilities had never left, even after all this time.
The ritual they had used did indeed destroy his mortal form and he supposed that in the eyes of humans that would constitute as death, but for Gods all it did was unshackle the powerful spirit locked within the confines.
And unshackled he was, his power, pure and raw without any container to temper it’s fury, rushed out of that fragile mortal form like all the worlds evil rushed out from Pandora’s Urn and shifted the course of the weather.
He was very much alive, though the humans would not know it the way he did, Melanthe was alive.
Returned to his natural state as a bodiless, unstoppable force of nature, life and Spring.
His very being could be felt all around, if one knew what to look for. In the wind, the grass, the rain and the trees L’arc could feel his energy all around, surrounding him in such a way that of he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine Melanthe holding him and whispering in his ear.
The thought made the little bag next to him pulse faster and louder, pulling the God of Death from his fantasy.
Ah yes. That.
He had hidden it away in the mortal realm far away so he would not be tempted to place it back in the empty wound still open under his armour.
And yet here it was.
Was it meant to be an omen of sorts? A way of fate telling him to take it back?
Before, he was so certain that he never wanted it anywhere near him again. Now he wasn’t so sure.
He found himself picking up the bag and staring at it thoughtfully, little sparks of past emotion once again flitting through his body.His heart, the container for all his strife, woe, anger, joy and love continued to beat away innocently in his hand.
No, not his heart anymore.
Not since he first clapped eyes on the God of Spring in the grand hall of the King of Day and the Queen of Night.
Even in that dingy cell, looking miserable, filthy and in no way like a god, Melanthe- Naofumi had still looked so beautiful that L’arc still felt something leap with mixed feelings, muted yes, but still feelings.
Even with the absence of a heart in his chest, his husband was still able to make him feel this way. Still able to possess him so easily.
It was still in Melanthe’s grasp, even when he was not here.
. . .
He would not place his heart back in his chest.
If that was to happen, it would be Melanthe who did so, whenever he decided to come back. If he decided to come back. He could if he wanted to. It would take time, gathering power from the earth would be damaging to the land, and so few mortals still believed in the gods that gathering the strength from prayers alone would take centuries to accomplish.
But until then, L’arc would keep it safe, and should Melanthe decide he despised this world and never returned, well then L’arc would remain this way forever.
But he could wait. He would wait. However long it took.
He sighed, somehow feeling lighter.
The weather seemed to feel the same. The drizzling clouds parted and allowed the sun to shine through to be dappled on the grass through the willow branches. Had that shift of the weather timed to his decision been a coincidence, or perhaps. . .
“Melanthe. . .?” He called out softly.
No reply. Just the sound of the breeze rushing through the grass. Ah well worth a shot.
The God of Death carefully placed the bag containing his heart back on the grass next to him and laid down. Soon he would return to the Underworld and catch up on his work, but for now he needed rest.
Will Melanthe come back?” he wondered, “And if he does, will he still love me?”
He hoped so. Stars he hoped so.
“Will he take the same form? Or will he try something new?”
The red lights dimmed and flickered out.
“Perhaps he will take a new name. To show he has grown and changed with time while I have been stuck for so long.”
L’arc had to admit, ‘Naofumi’ had a lovely ring to it. It suited him perfectly.
“The garden will be overrun at this point, he will not be happy.”
He chuckled.
“At least he’ll have something to do.”
His breathing became slow and his consciousness began to drift away.
“I will wait for you, my beloved. However long it may take, I will wait for you.”
“My precious Naofumi. . .”
For just a moment, L’arc could have sworn he smelled the scent of freshly cut grass in the air and felt a feather light kiss on his cheek.
Then he fell asleep.